


Opus

by ArloRhode



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Difference, BDSM, Daddy Kink, Double Penetration, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Falling In Love, Friendship, Marriage, Past Abuse, Porn With Plot, Sex Club, Sex Toys, Threesome - F/M/M, True Love, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Verbal Abuse, financial abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23806036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArloRhode/pseuds/ArloRhode
Summary: You are a friend and research assistant to Shuri at the WIOC, which has allowed you to escape from your old life -- mostly, anyway. A simple crush on the kind Steve Rogers turns into something more as you find the safety of his arms replaces your other escapes. Smut ensues, but as you each glimpse baggage the other hides -- and that Old Life of yours rears its ugly head  -- will you fall apart? Or, will Steve Rogers become more than just the perfect escape?FYI: The plan is that Steve is NOT kinky in this one. The kinky stuff is *other* people. But we will see!
Relationships: Original Male Character(s)/Reader, Steve Rogers/Reader
Kudos: 15





	1. A and B

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything for this site in five years!!! Quarantine is bringing me back. I hope you all are hanging in there during these hard times. Stay well!
> 
> Chapter 1 is basically just exposition, but just so you know:
> 
> \- mentions of sexual content
> 
> \- mentions of financial/emotional abuse from the reader's father
> 
> Thanks for reading guys xoxo

“Shuri!” You blush, your voice somehow rising up an octave despite your attempt to whisper. You lean over in your seat to rest your elbows on the lunch table and hide your face with your forearms -- and tuna fish sandwich.

“I knew it, you kinky bitch!” Shuri laughs at you, but not maliciously. Your friend and lab director always makes you smile when she laughs, no matter how bummed, frustrated, or horribly, horribly embarrassed you may be feeling that day. “Don’t use your food as a shield,” she continues through her giggle, “You’re getting your nasty fish on the table. Besides, no one else is in here.”

Shuri is right. The main assistant on her most recent pet project for the Wakandan International Outreach Center (WIOC), you spend plenty of time working overtime and weekends in the lab with Shuri. Today is such a day, and it’s just the two of you at the lab break table sharing a meal and catching up on each other's lives without having to focus on work. Still, today you can’t help but fear someone overhearing Shuri’s attempts to grill you on your sex life.

“How do you even know what that is?” You come out from behind your sandwich to stick your tongue out at your friend. “Aren’t you, like, 16?”

“I am 17, Layla.” Shuri reaches for her phone, checking a text. After so much time of being called by your chosen name, it rings as naturally to you as the one given to you at your birth. You never introduce yourself as (Y/N) anymore, not in this city. It's not much, but it still gives you the feeling of having something, anything between your life here and your childhood. Besides, you like Layla. You made her, and she's all yours. You love the name as a result. Shuri sets down her phone, sticking out her tongue at you. "Besides, even if I was some perfect, virginal princess there is still the internet."

“Are you saying that you aren’t?” You feign shock. 

“Oh, you know very well what I mean,” Shuri says, flipping her braids over her shoulder dramatically. She grins. “But don’t change the subject. We were talking about you. And your MANY KINKS!” Shuri raises her voice, craning her neck to look around, pretending to address the empty room.

“Shuri!” You can’t help but laugh harder now. You two talk about your love lives all the time — you are only four years older than she is, and the awestruck teenagers who fall for Shuri’s wit, brains, and compassion are so numerous that they’ve created an _endless_ source of hilarity for you two to gossip over — though this is one particular subject that has never come up before.

“I’m not making fun of you,” Shuri promises you, rising from her seat. “Now come on and let’s get back to work before I spank you.”

“Okay, see? That actually _is_ making fun of me,” you respond, putting away the rest of your food to join her.

“Hush, you know you love me.” Shuri grins, making her way over to the main monitor in the room. Her fingers swipe through the air, reviewing our work. “Oh, right! I was thinking I’d like for you to write the press release for next week!” Shuri exclaims over her shoulder. You freeze at your workstation. Shuri notices, “Only if you want to.”

You find yourself blushing again. “Next week? Like, _the_ press release?”

“Yyyyes…” Shuri grins, turning back to her work.

“You mean for the whole project?”

“Layla. Yes.” Shuri smirks.

Your hands fly up to your cheeks, and you feel giddiness rising in your chest. “Jesus! I mean, thank you, but why?”

Shuri swipes rapidly through some blueprints projected into a hologram. “Because you are the only one who knows the material well enough to explain it correctly. And you are a good writer. I’ve been reading some of your summaries on the subgroup's experiments, and you even made me laugh a few times.” Shuri turns back to you and points in your direction enthusiastically. “Plus, tell me it won’t be fun for you!”

“Oh, it will,” you reply, running across the lab to give Shuri a hug. When you pull away she squishes your cheeks between her hands.

“My best friend is a real crazy person if her idea of a good time is staying up late writing a _press_ _release_ ,” she sighs. Shuri pats your face and smiles. “Now, back to work.”

“Of course!” You retake your place at your desktop, your turn to smile. How exciting! You have always loved your work, but have also had a passion for science writing your whole life. It’s ridiculous, but you’ve always wanted to write a textbook— a funny one! For normal people.

“So,” Shuri interrupts your thoughts. “Now that I have sufficiently placed you off your guard, do you still have a crush on Steve Rogers?” You nearly choke. Shuri claps her hands together. “Ah,” she says, “That’s a yes. I was just asking to confirm that you have, in fact, had kinky daydreams about Captain America.”

“Shuri this is so inappropriate.”

“That’s a yes, too! Oh, Layla.”

“If you ever speak of this to anyone else I will die instantly,” you groan, face burning bright red. So what if you happen to think literal angel Steve Rogers was a little hot? So did every other basic bitch in the world. You just happen to have crushed fairly hard, because, A) you “dated” a string of really shitty guys in college. You may have been incredibly accelerated when it came to the curriculum but when it came to social skills you were still just a 16-year-old kid, even if you were a college freshman by then and happened to Have Boobs. People — men — took advantage of that. It is why nowadays you almost exclusively (though infrequently) take care of any sexual needs you may have in a controlled, no-strings-attached environment. Still, you have always found yourself haplessly drawn to people who didn’t look at you differently than other people, who were polite and kind and supportive, even if they were strangers... and even though it seems like such a low bar.

Which brings you to fact B, the memory that still makes your face red and stomach twist: B) Steve Rogers was kind to you. Steve was one of the polite, kind, and supportive people. He didn’t look at you differently than the other people at the WIOC just because you were young. You had only officially spoken once, but — and you could never tell Shuri this — you saw him all the time. He visits the WIOC several times a month to film promos for new outreach programs, and uses the company gym while he’s here.

You haven’t been able to forget the first time you met him. You were working out, putting in some time at the bench press. You still remember the music in your headphones, your heavy, intentional breaths, and your eyes being squeezed shut. You had been upset. Angry. You had just gotten off the phone with your father, and you had been short with him. You were pissed at him for asking for money again, for intruding upon the semblance of peace and control you had built for yourself so far away from him. You were pissed at yourself for being so brutal on the phone. You were pissed at him for sounding so hurt. Why couldn’t he be an asshole? He never threatened you, he never got mad. He only ever begged. Apologized for not being a better father. Your big sister Maya said he didn’t mean any of it, that he was just being manipulative. That he knew how to get to you. You were pissed that she was right.

  
You had grunted at the effort of pushing the bar away from your chest, trying to focus on the reps. Focus on something else. And that’s when Steve showed up. A hand, quickly reaching out to hover under your bar, and a shadow passing over your body.

“Whoa,” you heard a confident, strong voice say, asking, “You need a spotter?” Your eyes had opened and adjusted to make out a face, upside down of course, but smiling. A chiseled jawline. Piercing blue eyes. You didn’t recognize him.

“Oh, um,” you fumbled, slotting the bar back into its slots. “It’s okay, I was just finishing. Do you want to use the bench? I can move.”

“No, no, you’re good,” he responded. You sat up, orienting yourself. Your sweaty legs stuck to the plastic bench a bit where they weren’t covered by your shorts. You were embarrassed, but he probably didn’t even notice. “I’m headed to the other room. Thanks though.” Steve had a bag slung over his shoulder. He asked you, not with any air of accusation but with seemingly genuine curiosity, “You an intern?”

“No,” you responded, feeling yourself flush with sheepishness, still not realizing who this man was. “I’m a lab assistant for Shuri Udaku. I’m just young.” You hated yourself for being so defensive. This guy wasn’t accusing you of anything, you were just amped up because of your dad and —

“That’s incredible. I am super inspired by the work you guys do there.” Steve had responded with real interest and without any skepticism. It made you raise your eyes from the floor and meet his gaze. His face changed a bit, you thought, seeing your eyes. He seemed to stand up a bit straighter. You knew you must have looked ridiculous, in a sweaty tank top and your ponytail falling apart. You had been too enthralled by his beauty to really notice anymore, though. You had gripped the bench you were still sitting on tightly, trying to relax. “What’s your name?” he asked quietly. You told him, breathless. “Nice to meet you, Layla. I’m Steve.”

“Nice to meet you, Steve.” It had hit you then. “Rogers?” you asked.

“Oh, yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Ha, I gotta say I’ve heard a bit about your work too.” You had smiled a little, surprised at yourself for keeping an even tone. But it felt so easy to talk to him. “Thank you for your service.”

Steve Rogers smiled back. “Gosh, been a while since anyone phrased it quite like that.”

“Well, you are a veteran after all. Aren't you technically _still_ in the army?”

He paused then, looking at you with amusement. “You know what, I don’t know. I think I’m still technically classified as a Captain.” He had chuckled, and you felt happy. “Look, if you weren’t actually done here, you should let me spot you for a few minutes. I’m not in a rush, and it’s much safer.” Steve retook his stance behind the bar. You looked at him, gauging his intention. Was he just being nice? He had smiled.

“Okay, thanks. I’m almost done, anyway.” He’d nodded. You did your last few sets with him, his hand hovering nearby in case the bar were to slip. You didn’t feel embarrassed anymore, and you didn’t think about your dad for the rest of the day. You just thought about Steve, his protective nature so clear to you, so comforting to you as he stood by, and the sound of him saying your name as he waved goodbye to you, heading into the kickboxing studio with a wave and a, “Bye, Layla, it was nice to meet you.”

“Yeah. Thanks for the help,” you’d replied, and watched him go. Throughout the last few months, you would sometimes see him through the windows into the studio from the main gym, or the pool. You’d never spoken again, maybe because you never ran into each other. When you saw him, he was so focused on his boxing, this look of quiet power and — maybe — anger. You wouldn’t interrupt that even if you had the confidence to do so, or a good reason. You simply watch him from afar during his visits, for a few seconds when you walk by or get out of the pool. You have always wondered after the cause of that hidden anger, but the idea that he had gone out of his way to be kind to you and look after you when he clearly had his own baggage to carry around is what made the lasting impression on you.

It was what made your thoughts of him grow into a blushing fondness, and really quite a terrible crush after some time. B) Steve Rogers was kind to you

You are snapped out of your memory by Shuri’s voice. “You know what?” she exclaims as if suddenly realizing something. “If you write the press release, you will need to sit with me at the release party, and with the other big boys! Oh, this is so exciting. It can be so boring by myself, and I can never explain the projects as well as I know you will be able to. You’ll be able to rescue me from the old men asking questions.” Shuri claps her hands together. “Oh, and we will get to _dress you up_! I’m so excited.”

“Oh, Shuri, I don’t know. I am terrible at events like that…” You sigh, but smile at her enthusiasm.

“No, you must come. It will be great. Besides, your Captain America will be there and you will look like a fox. Maybe I can introduce you. Give you something for the spank bank.”

“Oh my GOD, Shuri —” you begin to protest.

“No, no. It’s already decided. Please say you’ll come?” She gives you puppy dog eyes. Oh lord. You’ve never been able to deny your best friend. And somehow, the idea of seeing Steve again isn’t making your brain explode too much.

“Okay.”


	2. Tension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- mentions of specific sexual acts

Chapter 2:

As you pack your bag, your elbow knocks a pen onto the lab floor, and the noise makes you flinch. You even let out a little yelping sound. Oof. You are wound up. You let out a deep breath and quickly tuck the fallen pen and your water bottle into the shoulder bag. You’re a jumpy person, but tonight you know it’s worse than usual. With the press release due so soon, you stayed late in the lab after Shuri left to collect some of your old summaries and render a few graphs for the slideshow presentation you know will be projected behind whoever reads this thing. You don’t like being in the building after closing. The dark in the halls gives you the heebie-jeebies.

Plus, ther's Shuri’s wild, totally unwarranted, not at ALL true accusations about your Fantasizing About Captain America. Sure, you think he is wonderful and beautiful and kind, but you don’t actively picture having sex with him. That has always felt wrong to you, picturing someone without their knowledge in that way. It’s one thing thinking about a boyfriend or sexual partner — they are already involved in your sex life. But using a stranger to get off, even if they never know? Ever since college, when Creepy Jeremy (as your friends called him) drunkenly informed you on a bus back from downtown one Saturday night — you’d been stuck late at work, but this guy had clearly been at a party — that he thought about you when he jerked off, you felt wrong about using people that way. If you use them as an object long enough in your mind, they stop being real people to you. That isn’t to say sex has to be emotional or loving for it to be good and important — lord knows you appreciate that fact — but this was just how you were. God, Creepy Jeremy. What a stalker. He had literally trapped you in your window seat on the bus by refusing to move from the aisle chair even when you arrived back at campus, talking the whole time. When you finally managed to step over him and get off the bus, you thought you were going to vomit. College was a shitshow. Just like high school, just like home. You promised yourself when you got the job working for Shuri that you would leave all those people behind. And you had.

You swing your packed bag over your shoulder, keeping your keychain wrapped around your wrist as you head for the exit to the lab. You flip off the lights and hear the humming machinery in the room grow a little quieter. The sliding doors open and close on their own, and you say out loud, “Lola, lock up for the night please.” Lola — or, “LOLA” more accurately, for “Locally Operative Laboratory Assistant” — the lab's AI helper whose database can only be accessed from within the lab, for security reasons, obliges.

“Goodnight, Miss (Y/LN).”

“You know you can call me Layla when it’s just us, Lola.” You turn to make your way down the stairwell from the lab into the main halls of WIOC.

“I do, but it is more elegant with the honorific.” Lola’s slightly robotic voice sounds gently from the doorway you just left. 

“Oh, and I’m very elegant all of a sudden?” You smile, pausing halfway down the stairs.

“Director Udaku said you would be submitting a press release for the new project to me sometime soon. I determined that you would have a positive reaction to this opportunity.” Lola’s lights dance across the wall.

“Aw, yes. I am excited, thank you. Goodnight, Lola.” You chuckle to yourself as you leave the lab for the night. “Lola, could you please turn on the hallway lights going down to the gym and the parking lot? Just for a few minutes.”

“I will. Enjoy your evening.”

The halls echo a bit with your footsteps as you walk, quickly so as to get to your destination as soon as possible. You need to get your gym clothes from your locker and wash them at home. You usually walk out with Shuri, when the halls are still bustling with activity, and when you have to leave her side to get you laundry once or twice a week the gym is still full. You make yourself breathe more slowly. It is not a big deal. You’ll be home in no time. Home, home, home. You push the door to the locker room open. God, you’re antsy. You make your way quickly to the locker and unlock it. Pulling out your laundry bag, you can see the few photos you have pasted into the back wall of the locker. Your cat, Fruitloop. You, Shuri, and a few coworkers at a pub, laughing. And Maya, everywhere. Maya in Manila. Maya in Lahore. Maya on a mountain somewhere in the Caribbean — you had dropped the photo in a pool of water on the counter near the sink when you pulled it out of the envelope, and the ink on the back ran. The water warped the edges of the photo, but it made the colors swirl together, which you still like a lot.

Maya is a travel writer; a food critic with a successful blog and a regular column in Cooking with the New York Times. She is always on the road and writes under a pseudonym without ever including photos of herself in her work. That was how she got away from Dad. But no matter where she goes, Maya sends _you_ cheesy tourist pictures and a little note by mail. _I am in Ghana… Morocco… Norway. I learned how to make shea butter today… A handsome man bought my coffee at breakfast… I swam in a pool cut out of a frozen lake. I am doing well, and I love you._ You know Maya isn’t all good all the time, but she always writes that for your sake. Always a smile in the pictures. _I am doing well, and I love you._ Always the big sister.

You close the locker door and speed out of the room. Doooooown the hall, into the elevator. In the empty elevator, you can hear every sound of the mechanisms, which adds to your edginess even though everything in the building is state of the art and totally safe. When you get to the garage, your footsteps echo on the concrete walls even louder than they did in the halls. You see your bike and draw the keys into your palm from where they dangle around your wrist. You quickly unlock and open the small storage trunk at the rear and swap the helmet and jacket stored there for your shoulder bag and small sack of laundry. You can’t help but look around, and over your shoulder. There is nothing there. There never is, you tell yourself, pursing your lips. You zip on your pale blue, thick jacket — another gift from your sister, it has a big yellow sun on the back. _Happy birthday, Sunshine,_ Maya had written on the box. You throw on your helmet, mounting your motorcycle. Taking a deep breath, you let the humming power of the bike course through your body as it vibrates to life beneath you. You instantly feel stronger, more sure of yourself. Knowing the lot is empty you let yourself rip out of the building and allow the speed to clear your mind of the uncomfortable anxieties of the night. Behind the shield of your helmet, however, you sigh and know that the knot of tension in your chest and your limbs will require more than just a quiet night at home. You arrive at your apartment building and park your bike, quickly collecting your bags. The elevator up to your place plays music, like always. It is the only elevator you have ever been in that plays real elevator music. You are still antsy, but it is a different sort — your body is behaving this way partly in anticipation of the release you now know is coming.

Your home is small but comfortable. The open floor plan and big windows make it feel bigger than it is, and it's just you and Fruit Loop, anyway. You don’t need much space. The kitchen space is divided by a counter from a small living area, one side of which is taken up by a wide closet that holds your washer and dryer, cleaning products, Fruit Loop’s food, and your toolkit for the bike. A few stairs lead up to an upper level with your bed and desk. The bathroom is the only walled-in area unless you count the second closet for your clothes near the bed. Tonight you simply chuck your stuff onto the desk, taking time only to put your dirty gym clothes in the hamper. Fruit Loop is already at your feet, noisily demanding his late dinner.

“Hello, sweet boy,” you coo at him, scooping him up for a quick kiss. “Sorry I’m late.” As you crack open a can of wet food from the fridge and spoon half of it out for Fruit Loop's dinner, your phone is already pressed to your ear. After two rings, the familiar voice picks up.

“Club Flicker. This is Anthony, how can I help you?”

“Hi, Anthony,” you reply, placing Fruit Loop’s dish on the mat next to his cat door, which leads out onto the small balcony where his litter box is. “I’m calling for account number 50315.” You have the number written on a post-it on the side of the fridge, but you don’t need to look. You know it by heart now.

“Thank you, let me… Okay, that number worked fine but I am going to have to ask you a security question.” Anthony’s voice is steady.

“Of course.” You wash your hands in the kitchen sink.

Anthony reads off the screen the security question you provided when you first set up an account at Flicker almost a year ago. “Are you coming down into the pit? Wesley's got his strength back. I'm starting him on the machine tonight.”

It is a quote from your favorite movie, The Princess Bride. You smile, and from memory reply, “Tyrone, you know how much I love watching you work, but I've got my country's 500th anniversary to plan, my wedding to arrange, my wife to murder and Guilder to frame for it. I'm swamped!”

Anthony chuckles on the other end of the line, his voice brightening from the professional tone he always initially uses. “God, it gets me every time. Okay, all set. How are you tonight, K?” He calls you by his nickname for you, derived from the moniker you use while at Flicker.

“I’m good, Anthony. I was hoping to come by sometime tonight if people are around.”

“It’s Saturday night, girl, people are around. You want me to book you a room upstairs for after? I’ll do that first, things are filling up.” Anthony knows you pretty well by now. You have never met face to face but have spoken for ages over the phone. Flicker has about a dozen small rooms upstairs from the club for people who wind up staying the night. For you, an ideal night at the club means you can barely walk at the end, let alone ride your motorcycle. You tried that once and it hurt the whole way home. Instead, part of the fee you pay Flicker quarterly means that twice a month, you get a room for the night if they aren’t booked up. The rest of the money is for what Anthony and the owners of the club provide — matchmaking. Anyone with a password can show up to the club for a simple entry fee any night and party, but you don’t like meeting people randomly that way. Why waste time and fuck around, you think, laughing at your own little joke. You call Anthony ahead of time, and he connects you with other club members. They know what you want by the time you meet them. It’s absolutely the best money you’ve ever spent on this part of your life — in and out, no string attached, absolute discretion, and the next morning you are always ready to face the week calmy, with absolute control — after a long night of sleep and a bath, of course. It helps that, as a young, single woman, you get a massive discount on the membership.

You feel your muscles ache in your back and neck, and know you are being twitchy. Tonight will be just what you need. No thinking, no decisions. Someone else will be in charge. You look down at your hand where you’ve been biting your nails all week. You think about the press release. You are so excited by the opportunity, but you have to admit it to yourself: it makes you nervous being in the public eye. What if you showed up on someone’s social media, or on the TV coverage of the announcement, and your father saw? You clench your fist on the counter. You don’t want him knowing where you are, and it makes you feel guilty. Sometimes you feel like the vigilance and rationalizing becomes a constant buzz in the back of your head. Tonight will be good.

“What are you looking for tonight, my friend?” You can hear Anthony’s fingers flying over his keyboard on the other end of the phone.

“I’m neutral about venue. I’d prefer public, I guess, but I could go either way,” you tell him, leaning your elbows on the countertop.

“Cool beans,” Anthony replies, voice smiling.

“Nerd,” you laugh.

“I am not! I work at a sex club. I’m like, the coolest possible,” he retorts. “How many partners?”

You think. “Two. I could do more, as long as they know I won’t be doing any fellatio.”

“Preferred gender?”

“Men, tonight.”

“Okay, and just to run through the acceptable activities — sorry to have to do this every time, by the way,” Anthony sighs.

“Puh-leaz,” you tut at him. “You’re doing me a service?”

“Yeah, but I know this part is tedious. I’m just gonna breeze through, stop me if there’s a change: acceptable activities are general external touching, cunnilingus, vaginal penetration, anal penetration, restraints limited to limbs, hair pulling, choking, spanking, slapping, covering of the mouth limited to hands, physical and verbal resistance, vibrators, blindfolds. Special note, no kissing on the face or oral penetration. Sound good?”

“Yup. As usual!”

“Sure thing. Verbal partner okay?”

“Preferred.”

“And I have you down as verbal, too.” Anthony finishes the questionnaire.

“Yup.” You make your way towards the bathroom. You aren’t embarrassed that Anthony knows so much about you — you’d rather deal with him than have some questionnaire. Since the beginning of your visiting Flicker, he has been helpful and funny.

He types it in. “Now for the notes: any injuries or places to stay away from tonight?”

“No, thank you,” you say, turning on the shower.

“Safeword?”

“Eh, you know me. Just ‘stop’ is good.”

“And safe nonverbal signal?”

“I’ll open and close my hands a bunch.”

“Roger. And what do you want to be called?”

“Whatever they want, just nothing sweet. Except for the name, of course. Kitten. As usual.”

“Nothing too affectionate! Nice. That’s all the notes and search fields, K. Give me five,” Anthony says, and you hear hold music playing. You use it as an opportunity to undress, piling your work clothes on the bathroom counter. You reach into the water to test the temperature. It’s still cold.

You recognize the hold music. It’s an instrumental cover of a pop song from quite a few years ago. You can remember dancing to it at some event Maya took you to. A quinceanera? Yeah, for Maya’s friend’s little sister. You didn’t know why you were there at the time, but Maya had told you in the car that she thought you’d like the free food, and to “be around such a nice family.” It _was_ nice. You had never seen a family group so happy, so supportive. They all were respectful and joyful with each other. Maya used to do that all the time; she would try and show you examples of what is possible. That not every family had to be like yours. That you could have something different. You reach under the sink for a fresh razor.

“I’m back!” Anthony’s voice replaces the music. “Are you still there?”

“Yeehaw,” you respond, smiling.

“That’s a yes,” Anthony chuckles. “I got a few possibilities for you. Tell me which sound good and I’ll send them your profile, yeah?”

“Sure thing, man,” you say, testing the water again.

“Five pairs of guys tonight seem to have parameters similar to yours,” he begins.

“God, I love living in a big city,” you say, grinning.

“Tell me about it.”

“Are they cute? I trust you.” The water is finally hot.

“I’d say two of the pairs are pretty hot, yes.”

“Send them my profile. Can you call me back when you hear from them?” you ask, eager to step into the warmth of the shower.

“Yup. Talk to you soon, K.” Anthony hangs up.

The shower water makes your skin flare up in goosebumps before you become acclimated. It feels good, but you know you won’t be able to truly relax until later. You wash your hair first, the thick curls falling down your back after you remove them from the bun you keep them in at work. You shave your legs and armpits and wonder if the hair covering your pubic bone needs a trim. You never shave it -- razor burn is a bitch, but sometimes you will cut it short. Looks fine, tonight. You clean your body with unscented bar soap before stepping out of the shower. You wrap yourself in a towel. With your fingers you brush conditioner through your curls, detangling them, but don’t waste any styling gel-- your hair will get ruined later, after all. After applying lotion to your face and body, and putting on some deodorant, you retrieve your hairdryer, drying your curls with the defuser. When they are mostly dry you leave them be, and exit the bathroom to pick your clothes.

“What do you think, Fruit Loop?” you ask your feline friend as you open the closet. Your phone rings. You see it is Anthony, and pick up. “Hello again!”

“Hey girl, I’ve heard back from the first pair. They want you, say they can meet you as soon as in an hour and a half.”

“Oh, yay. And you say they are good looking?” You reach into the closet and push your work clothing to the other side of the rack.

“Yup. Strong looking guys, tall, dark, and handsome.”

“Works for me.” You don’t really care about the specifics of what my matches at the club look like. As long as they are capable. “Tell them I’ll be there at…” You look at the clock on your nightstand. Almost 9 o’clock. “10:30.” It was quite the commute — all the way on the other side of the city, in a part of town you’d never seen your coworkers visit or heard them mention. You are willing to make the trip for discretion’s sake.

“You’re set. Sit at the member’s bar. Guy #1 says they will be in blue suit jackets. They know your name.”

“Anything I need to know?”

“Yeah, they are basically just going with your game plan, but want to be called… um, let's see… okay, they are into some basic dominant stuff: sir, daddy.”

You tell him that’s okay. You don’t mind the title “daddy,” despite how weird it might feel to some. To most men, it just meant masculine power. Besides, part of what you loved about the club was that it was one of the few parts of your life in which you never thought of your father. You didn’t have to worry about him, or anything in your life. Nothing existed in Club Flicker outside of your body and those of your partners. That is why you didn’t always want a private room at the club for your escapades: when all that matters is the physical part of you, having eyes on you simply cements how real that physical part is. More real than anything else, in those moments. You’ll call your partners whatever they want because the words aren’t real either. Just the release.

“Have fun tonight, honey, it sounds like it will be a doozy.” Anthony bids you goodnight.

“It better be. I don’t have to work until the afternoon, tomorrow. Thanks for your help, Anthony,” you reply, spotting a dress you decide you will wear tonight.

“Anytime.” He hangs up. You pull the dress on its hanger out of the closet and touch the thin fabric.

“Fruit Loop, honey, I’ll see you tomorrow.”


	3. Flicker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Explicit sexual content

The room is small, and windowless, but there is a skylight that lets in some of the glow from the outside city, and the lamps in the room give off a warm light. You like this setup, so different than how you’d initially expected the upstairs rooms for rent at a sex club to look like. It feels like a small, normal hotel room, complete with the little soaps in the bathroom. Another reason you like Flicker so much. You had picked up a red wristband in the main lobby, only having to tell the attendant at the front desk your account number so they could check you in. The club proper was in the basement and had a bouncer, but you could enter the lobby without dealing with the line.

You drop your small duffle bag onto the dresser, and immediately find the small speaker they have in each of these bedrooms, built into the wall. You press the “on” button and your ears fill with the pulsing music you know they are playing in the club below you. You have to turn it down a bit — whoever rented this room last had the volume cranked — but you can already feel your body responding to the high-energy dance music. You never join the people on the dance floor in the club, but enjoy getting pumped up this way in your room while you get ready to meet your...date. Or dates. There was something about the idea of dancing in a crowd that is so intimate, to you. A little two-step at yourself in the mirror, though, while you put on your makeup? That’s good. You love music. You smile and let out a sigh of relief as you shimmy out of the long leggings you wore for the bike ride over. Your jacket is already tossed over the desk chair, and your cotton tank top follows it. You lose the soft, wireless bralette and socks, pick up your discarded clothes, and open your duffle bag. You have a little grocery bag in there for laundry, and you tuck the clothes in there. You pull your hair out of its loose ponytail, shedding the scarf you wear over it when you want to protect your hairstyle on the bike, and feel your curls brush your neck.

The song changes and the bass in this new track seems to vibrate through your legs and back. You are already excited about your time with these new men, these new people. No one knows you in the club. Sure, some know your face from your recurring visits, but no one really knows. You could be anyone to them. The reflection you see in the mirror could even be considered alluring — beautiful — to those people. The simple black pushup bra sits on the top of the bag. You draw it out, along with the little pouch you keep your stockings in. You don’t wear underwear in the club anymore. You used to, but they always got ripped or taken by someone or other, and it's a bear buying new ones all the time.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, you enjoy the sensation of drawing the thin nylon over your legs and up to your thighs. The belt is black, thin, and tight around your hip bones. It holds up the stockings with smooth elastic bands that you always forget are there until someone is touching them. You put on your bra, reaching into the cups at your armpits to pull your cleavage forward. You like how it looks in the mirror. The dress zips up in the back, the thin linen resting off the shoulder and tying at your breast. The skirt starts at your mid ribcage and flares down to cover your ass and the top of the stockings, though it stops midthigh. You pull out your simple black heels and step into them, shimmying a little to the music. You hum to yourself as you take your bag into the bathroom to do your makeup --simple, nothing that will run too much. You catch yourself rubbing your thighs together under your skirt. Christ, it's been too long. You touch your face, looking at your own eyes in the mirror. You look tired.

You are tired.

Tonight will be good. You take a deep breath and smile at yourself. You look nice. The clock says 10:26 when you check it. Time to go. You turn off the music, but leave the lights on in the bedroom — you’ll need them on when you get back — and step out into the hallway. You leave everything in the room; the door unlocks with a keypad, the code being your account number. The elevator at the end of the hall takes you down to the basement level, where it opens into a discreet hallway. A bouncer at the elevator door nods to you — his job is to make sure people don’t crawl in after you leave and bother upstairs guests. The darkness, penetrated by rapidly flickering lights of red, white, and orange and blasting with the music of the club immediately fills your body with confidence. You saunter into the main room and let yourself be carried away for a moment in the sea of careless, reckless abandon.

Everywhere there are people in every manner of clothing, in every state of undress, and every stage of ecstasy. In the middle of the room is the bar, but aside from that there is blissful disorder everywhere you look. There are as many small stages as there are simple cocktail tables, as many padded benches as there are normal seats, as many restraints connected to the walls and floor as there are pieces of artwork. Everywhere there are people dancing, but the main dance floor is on the opposite side of the bar as you. There is moaning, screaming, laughter. You drink it all in. When your eyes are able to focus you are met with the gaze of a man and woman who have dragged a bench over to near the entrance of the hallway in which you stand. Her head is dangling upside down off the edge as he slowly, luxuriously fucks her. They are both completely naked, and grinning at you. They have set themselves up to meet the gaze of anyone coming off the elevator. As you raise your eyebrows to them the woman lets out a giggling moan of ecstasy, her mouth falling open. The man’s eyebrows furrow, and you know he likes you watching. You chuckle to yourself, sidestep the couple, and make your way to the bar. You walk past a crowd of people gathered around a muscular man pole dancing, and when you glance over your shoulder you can see a woman hoisted up a wall, her legs slung over the shoulders of a man who is eating her out. Two women are making out on the ground in front of you and you have to walk around. It’s great. When you sit at the bar, you are careful to sweep your skirt under yourself so as not to leave a stain on the seat. You are as turned on as ever.

The bartender approaches you quickly, a strong-looking woman with a shaved head and pierced lip. She serves you your order — three shots of tequila and a glass of water — with a sly smile. They don’t ID here — not if you have a red wristband. “What’s your name?” you ask.

“Morgan,” she replies. You will leave her a tip in your room tomorrow.

“Thanks, Morgan,” you say, smiling back at her. You down your first shot. It must be time now. You feel an involuntary shiver run down your spine, and you brush your hair over your shoulders. You take a deep breath and reach for your next shot. You feel a tingle in your skin as you feel a warm breath in your ear.

“Those two for us?” You hear a voice ask. When you look over your shoulder, you see a tall man in a blue suit, white shirt. His black hair is cropped close to his scalp, and a well-groomed, short beard shades the dark skin of his sharp jawline. “Kitten?” he asks.

Your breath catches, and you nod. “Hi there,” you say, turning slightly in your chair to look at him better. His friend emerges from behind him, also handsome, though a bit shorter and stockier. His hair is blond and is tied into a rustic, sexy bun. His green eyes scan your body.

“I’m Drew, “ the first man says, “and this is Malcolm,” he says, pointing to the blond man. “It’s...really nice to meet you,” he says, smiling. He eyes your skirt, and gently traces a finger over the hem where it meets your right thigh.

“Likewise,” you reply. You smile at the pair. Anthony was right. They are hot and well dressed. “Oh, and no.”

“No?” Malcolm speaks up, his voice deep. The two men step closer to you.

“The drinks aren’t for you. They are for me.” You smile and spin in your seat to face the bar again. Drew and Malcolm chuckle at you and lean upon the bar on either side of you.

“I see, I see,” Drew says. “It’s good to pregame. Maybe Malcolm and I should order something for ourselves.” Malcolm’s hand pushes a lock of your hair away from your face, and runs his fingers behind your ear.

“You are stunning. The pictures didn’t lie,” Malcolm whispers, and his voice in combination with the feeling of his fingers sends a rush of arousal through you. God. Malcolm smiles at Drew.

“You boys should feel free to order drinks if you like, but I am only drinking because _I_ am taking two cocks later, which is not something you can say for yourselves.” Your voice is strong and even. Sexy. Your smile grows even wider as you raise the second shot to your lips and hear both men groan at your words.

“Fuck. I suppose you’re right…” Drew sighs. You feel a hand fall on your knee from his direction and a gentle squeeze. “We will just have to wait patiently then for you to finish, eh Malcolm?” The powerful force of their presence on either side of you is as intoxicating as the alcohol.

“Oh, I’ll be quick.” You down the last shot, and chase it with a few gulps of water. “Let’s go.” You stand, take a hand from each man, and walk out of the glowing ring of lights from the bar and into darkness. The pair close on you, pressing their bodies up against yours. Drew has to lean down to speak in your ear.

“You called us ‘boys’ earlier, Kitten,” he says, his voice changing. You can feel the dominant energy rising in the two bodies enclosing yours. You slip into the feeling of it. "You didn't mean that, now, did you?"

“No, sir,” you say.

“That’s more like it,” Malcolm chuckles behind you.

“Mhm,” Drew groans. “You know your place don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you know not to talk back to your daddy, don’t you,” Drew says, his tone commanding and sultry. He gives his hips a grinding thrust against you as he names his title.

“No, daddy.” You close your eyes, already feeling hands on you everywhere. God.

“Let’s go,” Drew says, not to you but to Malcolm. Both men seize you by your upper arms and drag you further into the outskirts of the club. In your ear as you walk, Drew leans back to address you. “You’re obedient now, but I know you’ve been acting like a little slut, haven’t you?” His voice sends a jolt through your body. Your feet fumble a bit but Malcolm and Drew drag you.

“Y - yes, daddy,” you reply.

“You like that, don’t you? You’ve been fucking around and letting other people all over you. But not tonight. Tonight you are gonna know just who you belong to,” Drew grunts. The three of you arrive at a padded, round bench the size of a large coffee table. You are immediately thrown onto it, and you scrabble to catch yourself as you fall onto your hands and knees. “Turn around!” Drew commands. You turn to sit, leaning back onto your hands, and look up at the two powerful men. You are thrilled. “Malcolm, show us her pussy.”

Malcolm pushes past Drew to kneel on the bench beside you and push you down onto your back. Your breathing is heavy, and you look up at his flushed but calm face. These guys have done this before, together. He swiftly lifts up your skirt and grabs one of your knees to pull your legs apart, exposing you to Drew. Drew grunts, taking off his jacket. “Fuck. That’s it.” He takes a long finger and traces up your thigh towards your center. “You like being a little slut for all these other people so tonight they are gonna watch as you get fucked for real, aren’t they?”

You moan a little as Drew’s finger reaches your wet, hot lips and strokes upward. “Aren’t they?” Drew asks again, retracting his hand to slap your thigh in emphasis. You let out a cry, but Malcolm pushes a hand against your heaving chest to press you back onto the bench.

“Oh god,” you whimper, before responding, “Yes, yes.”

“Malcolm, take your jacket and shirt off, and get on your back. I want her to ride your face while she jerks me off,” Drew barks, his teeth gritted and eyes fiery. You feel your heart flutter, and you look up at the ceiling as Malcolm moves beside you. This is going to be good.


End file.
